


they both suffer in the end

by come_soft_rains



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Kissing, Lucifer and Crowley are besties, M/M, angel lucifer is a hottie, it's gonna be hella sad, set before the fall of the angels, some biblical stuff, they love each other and it's fucking tragic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 18:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_soft_rains/pseuds/come_soft_rains
Summary: this is the story of how aziraphale almost became a fallen angel. it's something that crowley's always claimed but never elaborated on. of course, aziraphale has never taken it seriously and just considers it an insult to his loyalty.thousands of years later and crowley let's him believe that. it doesn't matter anymore.





	they both suffer in the end

**Author's Note:**

> WOW watched good omens this weekend and got so inspired  
> i want to offer some sacrilege!

Despite what the dusty King James Bible on your shelf might tell you, the creation of the universe, of Earth, it took a few eternities. Creating humans? That took even longer. God told Aziraphale and the others that she wanted everything to go smoothly, perfectly, so she wanted to work out the kinks first. It was kind of like creating DnD characters. How much power should they have? Should they be just as smart? Her angels were smart, every last one of them. She created them individually.

She said when she made Aziraphale, he was talking as soon as he got a mouth--asking questions and smiling, all the while being calm and patient. 

The same couldn't be said for Crowley or Crawley or...whatever his name was back then. When Aziraphale thought hard, he couldn't remember Crowley's given name. His angelic name, his holy name. He didn't remember much from those days

Crowley was quiet when their Lord made him, which Aziraphale thought was very uncharacteristic. If he's honest, he doesn't quite trust Crowley. He seemed to be telling lies all the time and this may just be another rouse.

How was he supposed to remember though? His memory was erased.

Crowley has tried to tell Aziraphale this many times of course, all of which have failed. God wouldn't wipe his memory, no way.

_She wouldn't_.

Each angel was tasked with something different. Aziraphale had a knack for facts and information, so he was a scribe of sorts. He dictated what the Lord said and her wishes and her ideas of what was right and wrong. After writing down these new facts, Aziraphale would memorize them. He became a sort of moral philosophy search engine, something he was told the humans would need.

"Aziraphale, they will not be able to understand right and wrong without these statutes and truths in place. It's imperative that you watch over and enforce this in the human project." God said, her voice echoing eternally, as if her voice were thousands of voices. Aziraphale nodded, making a footnote that humans couldn't rationally make moral decisions without these truths. Without God.

Without God.

Aziraphale never stopped to wonder what life or existence would be like without God and her vast knowledge.

"Of course, my Lord."

Aziraphale was very important back then. Before Archangels were formed, they were all the 'same' caliber, but Aziraphale was definitely one of the most important.

Crowley had been tasked with finding and defining objective beauty. It was a large department. He worked specifically in sound. In fact, he developed the concept of music. _Well, **she** did. God. The angels didn't create anything. _Everything is created by God's divine inspiration. Therefore God created music through him.

"Only because of her divine presence are you able to determine what is objectively beautiful and perfect and worthy of praise" is what Aziraphale had told him when he started his quest on finding beauty in sound. Crowley definitely had a few problems with this, though he was never going to say anything. He kept these thoughts to himself.

He felt it in his bones when he heard something beautiful--like the seraphim. Their chanting and singing, their polyphony, it was one of the most gorgeous sounds. It never failed to bring tears to his eyes. It was these tears that landed him in this position in fact. He seemed to have a talent for hearing and _feeling_ this miracle of sound, this music.

He became one of the top most composers for the seraphim, feeding them ideas and harmonies and melodies that brought tears to the terrifying six winged giants themselves. Their faces were eternally covered with their two front wings, but the drops that fell from their cheeks and onto their toes betrayed them.

His lips curled and stretched into smile as the new song brought a Seraphim to their knees, their large hands clawing at their chest, tears rolling and hitting the ground.

"It's a miracle. This..." Aziraphale choked a sob from behind him.

Crowley turned, his proud smile wiped from his face; Aziraphale was hugging himself tightly, tears streaming down his smooth reddened cheeks. Crowley stepped toward the angel and took his thumb against the scribe's cheek, wiping the wetness away. The musician's fingertips lingered, caressing his cheek. _This is beauty,_ his heart said.

Aziraphale was done scribing for the time being, Crowley supposed. Around when everything began, he had started visiting this chamber _religiously_ after he was finished writing, but only recently did he start crying when he walked in. He was a vision. He had this wispy summer child hair and round peach flushed cheeks. Everyone knew that the most beautiful angel was Lucifer. God herself said so, a blush across her own face. But Crowley thought differently. He always thought differently. 

Aziraphale's cheeks burned as he carefully guided Crowley's wrist away, his eyes dropping to his feet. Despite him not being able to appreciate or understand the sound as much as Crowley, he always came. He always cried. And perhaps most importantly to Crowley, he came to see _him_. At least, Crowley had hoped that was the case.

Crowley grinned and stepped forward into Aziraphale's space, taking the hand gripping his wrist into his own. He snaked his fingers between Aziraphale's and held him securely, searching for his gaze, the sunny angel keeping his eyes at the ground.

"A miracle?" Crowley crooned.

"It always sounds like a miracle. I can't believe my ears." Aziraphale admitted, squeezing the musician's hand in his own.

"Thank you," he murmured, craning his neck down to try and meet Aziraphale's eyes.

The softly glowing man peered up with those devastating grey eyes, his pulse jumping at his neck as he stuttered, "Our t-thanks be to God!"

Crowley released Aziraphale's hand, his proud smile schooling into a vacant expression.

"Yes, Praise be to God."

†

Lucifer worked with Crowley in the quest for objective beauty department. Despite most angels having a designated area, Lucifer was good at everything. This came as no surprise. She was God's favorite. It took her human centuries to finish Lucifer. She was nearly flawless, coming out closely to God's own holy image. So she worked on everything from art to writing to music. Though she trusted Crowley with music.

Whenever she visited Crowley as a check up, she let loose. Her and Crowley were quite close.

They lay in the fields, their notepads and quills cast aside as they rested, finding beauty in nature as a break.

Lucifer was beautiful, it was a fact. Her tight black curls haloed around her, impossibly dark skin glinting against the stark white of her robes.

"I saw Aziraphale visited you not long ago." She said in a low, honey silk voice.

"Yeah."

"What are the Lord's new truths, did he tell you?"

Crowley pursed his lips, his hands running through the soft grass beneath him. "She says she will make humans in her own image, so they should love others as they love her."

Lucifer clicked her tongue. It used to make Crowley shiver because he knew what came next. She was going to criticize their Lord. But nowadays, he found himself agreeing with the angel more often.

"That seems a bit narcissistic to me." She quickly sat up and hovered her face over Crowley. Her eyes glistened with something Crowley couldn't put his finger on. She whispered, "Don't you think so?"

"I suppose," Crowley drawled. He didn't really care either way about humans or what God was creating for them because his job was up here. His job was about music. He would eventually share his findings and put it into the universe for the humans to 'discover', but as far as Crowley was concerned, his purpose was to compose. He composed for himself above all else, though he would never say that. 

"I think it's bullshit," she hissed, "Just like it's bullshit that we are created in her own image so that means all of our great ideas are _hers_ and not ours."

Now _that_ resonated with him. Lucifer spoke that into his ear a while back and now Crowley couldn't get that out of his head. He believed that. His music was his and somewhere deep down he didn't want to share that praise or give credit to anyone else. _He_ was the one writing the music wasn't he? He didn't see God next to him with the quill. It was Crowley. _Crowley_ was the one writing the music.

"Do you kiss her with that mouth, Lucifer?" Crowley laughed and pushed at her shoulders, moving her away so that he could sit up.

"Ugh, you wish. Maybe if I did she would let loose a little."

They laughed together in that field, curling over each other before picking up their notepads and going back to work.

_Kissing..._

†

Aziraphale would watch as Crowley composed, a look of awe on his face as Crowley arranged melodies and symphonies in a matter of minutes, each one being perfect and blessed and _holy_.

They were next to one of the rivers feeding into the delta. The water moved in a hum, meandering downstream to the edge of Heaven into the soup of what would be.

"How do you do it?" Aziraphale asked quietly

Does Crowley give Aziraphale the answer he expects to hear? That it's thanks to God? That he wouldn't be able to write this down without her divinity? That he's just a fucking God-copy writing perfect music all day?

He told the truth. "I give souls a voice."

Aziraphale's eyebrows knitted together. "That's too abstract."

"It's the most straight forward explanation I can give," Crowley replied absently. A shadow grew over his notepad, urging him to look up and find his friend, eyes distressed and pinched in confusion. _Beautiful._

"How do you give souls a voice then?" Aziraphale asked, his tone embellished with suspicion.

Crowley set aside his notepad and quill, shaking his hand out and looking at the scribe with an exasperated expression.

"I don't see why you haven't asked God how she inspires the music I write."

Aziraphale groaned, "Because I wanted to ask you. But I suppose if you're going to be a prick about it..."

Aziraphale leaned away and it was the opposite of what Crowley wanted, so he spoke up instantly, explaining himself, "Everything has a voice. The water, the grass, light. I listen to it and I write what I hear."

Aziraphale's features softened and his eyes drifted to the river in front of them, "But your music doesn't sound like running water, or whatever light sounds like."

"Music is a language. I interpret their voices into music."

Aziraphale mumbled dazedly, "What does my voice sound like?"

Aziraphale really shouldn't say such things with a breathy voice. It moved Crowley to be so much more impulsive. Crowley was pretty sure the pearly haired scribe knew exactly what he was doing, too. Before Crowley could think twice, he was invading Aziraphale's space, his hand firmly taking the angel's chin and forcing his face toward him. The angel’s eyes were knowing, unsurprised. Aziraphale was goading him. 

A wicked grin stretched across his face as he leaned forward, feeling the young scribe's warm breath against his mouth. "I don't know, let's see."

So he kissed him, closing the distance, his heart running in circles as the scribe's mouth pressed against his. His mouth was utterly _pliant_ and warm. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt that something was wrong with this. That he could have heard Aziraphale's 'voice' another way, but he couldn't complain when the angel was melting into him, soft, pale hands wrenching into Crowley's robes. Crowley laved his tongue into that mouth, drawing a gasp from the Aziraphale. It was bordering into misconduct, this kiss. It was too _sensual. He's perfect_. Crowley's mind growled.

He licked into that mouth more hungrily, his body moving and pressing Aziraphale into the grass. Crowley was over him now, his whole body going dizzy, right down to his toes. This was beauty. Aziraphale's hands were curled desperately into Crowley's dark robes, as if he were going to disappear in the heat that was enveloping him. 

Crowley opened his eyes enough to see the scribe's own screwed shut. It gave Crowley power knowing that he could reduce Aziraphale like this. It's everything he had ever wanted. He groaned and moved down to column of the angel's neck and began kissing him there. Crowley hadn't thought to kiss him there, but it seemed right, and Crowley really wanted to _taste_ him.

He licked and nipped at that neck, teasing the skin into irritation. It was like ambrosia to Crowley, the reddening skin plumping under his tongue. A hand tangled into his hair messy brown hair, pressing him impossibly closer. He relished in the fluttering pulse quickening under him. _Come on, Aziraphale. Speak for me._

The musician's mouth ghosted up his heavenly neck until he was at the pale shell of his ear, his warm breath bringing the angel below to a shudder. And then, Crowley heard the most beautiful, most heavenly sound. Those fingers tightened in his hair as Aziraphale let out a high, wanton moan. Aziraphale moaned his name.

He hissed into the scribe's ear. " _Stunning_." 

**Author's Note:**

> ex-catholic here!  
> so it literally says somewhere in the bible that lucifer was the most perfect, which is p gay. 
> 
> also, all the moral shit like  
> people not being able to discern between right and wrong if it weren't for god is literally based on thomas aquainas' moral philosophy. basically he says the reason why people know killing is wrong, objectively evil, is because god created the world and universe and determined those objective moral evils. 
> 
> would go on more, but i'm not really a big fan and also i don't care haha
> 
> religious philosophy bores me to tears ooooops
> 
> leave a comment or criticism ^_^ either is helpful  
> ty x
> 
> PS: apologies for any grammar errors or anything of the like. this fic is unbeta'd and I'm dyslexic AF. if there are any glaring errors lemme know;) I won't be butt hurt
> 
> PSS: I feel like seraphim would use they/them pronouns
> 
> Okay I'm done I promise


End file.
